


for you (there's nothing in this world i wouldn't do)

by padfootyoudog



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Brotherly Love, Gen, Minor Violence, Non-Graphic Violence, and there's not really actual fighting, and totally kicking ass, but like this isn't really violent at all, but yeah kili gets insulted and fili get's angry, fili being a protective big brother, protective!Fili
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 04:26:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6359254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/padfootyoudog/pseuds/padfootyoudog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I believe that you have an apology to make,” says Fíli conversationally, a second knife being twisted around his deft fingers. Kíli’s used to seeing those fingers wrapped around carving knives, helping him fletch arrows, or making tiny figurines.</p>
            </blockquote>





	for you (there's nothing in this world i wouldn't do)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Lion Prince](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1687253) by [goldenlionprince](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenlionprince/pseuds/goldenlionprince). 



> if you hover your mouse over the khuzdul, you'll see the translation, and for those reading on your phones or something, there'll be translations at the bottom :)

“Enough,” says Thorin, pushing his chair back from his desk. Fíli and Kíli look up from their papers, eyelids droopy, though they both make valiant attempts at seeming awake.

“Sorry, Uncle?” says Fíli, having just been on the edge of falling asleep. These are the first words they have spoken in a while.

Thorin grimaces, and leans back into his seat. “I shall not make you go through this for the rest of the night. Both of you, go out and get an ale or two – you’ve been quite helpful today, you deserve a break.”

“And leave you here to suffer on your own? The taste of ale would be tinged with guilt!” says Kíli, and his dramatics make the others laugh, disrupting the steady silence which had been drowning the room for the past few hours.

“It’s alright, boys, I believe that I can handle a bit of time alone to do paperwork,” says Thorin dryly, and the brothers exchange a look, before beaming at their uncle.

“Alright, if you insist,” says Fíli, quickly gathering up his things before Thorin can change his mind. Kíli copies his actions, and both of them are up and out of the office with chirpy farewells, returned not so enthusiastically by their uncle.

After changing into more casual clothes, since their council robes aren’t the most comfortable things in Arda, they make their way to the new pub which opened fairly recently by the training grounds. Kíli had thought about going there for lunch after training that afternoon, but Dwalin had sent him back to help Thorin and Fíli with their work.

The pub is not too big, but seems homely enough, and the brothers have been wanting to go out for a while. Making sure that Erebor runs smoothly is a difficult job, and they have both been overcome with work for the past few months, giving them little free time.

Fíli pushes open the door, and holds it for Kíli, assessing the patrons of the bar. There doesn’t seem to be anybody who could cause trouble, except for maybe a group of young-looking dwarves who are rowdy and look as if they’ve had too much to drink.

Their eyes immediately latch on to the Kíli when he walks in, and they exchange wicked grins.

“Who’s the elf?” jeers one of the drunks, and his friends laugh. They don’t look as if they’ve passed seventy. Kíli glances over at them, gaze watchful, but ignores it, heading straight for the bar where he and his brother are immediately served with foaming mugs of ale by the barman, who is thickly built with an impressively large moustache.

“Looks too spindly to hold his mug!” shouts another drunk. His friends keep up a steady roar of laughter. Fíli’s knuckles whiten as his grip on his mug tightens.

“Ignore them,” murmurs Kíli, placing a steadying hand on his brother’s arm, “they aren’t worth it.”

After all, if he were to pick a fight with every dwarf to insult him, there would be very few dwarves living in Erebor.

 “They shouldn’t insult you like that,” growls Fíli. “Not only are you a prince of Erebor, but you assisted in the reclamation of it. Perhaps they should be shown how to respect their elders.”

“Honestly, Fee, it’s alright. You know that Uncle doesn’t like us to start brawls when they can be avoided, and I’m already in trouble after skipping two council meetings in a row.”

Fíli’s mouth tightens. “I believe that this time, Uncle will make an exception.”

Kíli attempts to distract his brother with the recital of his day, even including his crippling defeat at the hands of Dwalin whilst sparring in the hopes that Fíli will at least _chuckle_ , but Fíli remains distracted by the insulting dwarves, jaw clenching tighter with each derogatory comment.

“He can barely be called a dwarf – it’s a wonder he was even _allowed_ into Erebor!”

This is the last straw.

Many dwarrow have admired Fíli’s seemingly never-ending patience, saying that he’s as calm as a summer day. Kíli often smirks at this comparison, because this naturally-sunny exterior merely covers his brother’s sharp ruthlessness. Fíli was taught early on that he should always wear a mask of composure if he is to be Crown Prince, and has always used this skill to his full advantage.

The dwarves stop laughing immediately when one of Fíli’s daggers thuds into the wall, just scraping the ear of the rowdiest one. The tavern goes silent, anticipating a fight. The barman looks torn, as if he’s wondering whether or not to stop them. When he catches sight of Fíli’s face, he stands down, pretending to be distracted by the different sorts of ale on tap.

Kíli wonders if this is fear, or if he’s recognised that two royals patronise his little bar.

“What,” thunders the drunk, “are you doing, you filthy bastard?” He touches his ear, and it comes away bloody. He suddenly looks very young.

Kíli sighs. He had so hoped to come out of this without any blood being shed, but he has no doubt that his brother’s temper has sparked now.

“I believe that you have an apology to make,” says Fíli conversationally, a second knife being twisted around his deft fingers. Kíli’s used to seeing those fingers wrapped around carving knives, helping him fletch arrows, or making tiny figurines.

The dwarf looks confused. “What, to that elf? He deserves no apology of mine!”

Kíli clenches his teeth together, Fíli’s face darkens, and nobody notices that the blade has left his fingers until it lands on the other side of the dwarf’s head, millimetres away from his other ear. The blond’s walk is casual as he moves closer, another knife swinging loosely in his hand.

“Do you not know who ‘that elf’ is, [lalkhûn](fool)1?” he says, leaning in close enough that he can see the sweat beginning to bead on the other dwarf’s forehead.

“A skinny runt?” says the dwarf, face set with false bravado. Kíli almost laughs, because he knows that Fíli is going to tear this stupid dwarf to shreds.

Quick as a whip, Fíli’s hand is at the dwarf’s throat, hauling him up from his seat until he has stumbled into the middle of the bar. He is too drunk to properly fight back, but not drunk enough to ignore the danger that he has landed himself in. The prince rests an arm around the other dwarf’s shoulders, almost companionable, though the threat is clear in the way that his fingers dig into the dwarf’s shoulder hard enough to bruise.

The dwarf’s friends make to get up, but Fíli shoots them a look of warning, which has them sitting back immediately. Kíli sometimes forgets just how frightening his brother can be in the heat of his anger, and moments like these serve as a harsh reminder.

“What is your name, [dashatu ruhks](son%20of%20an%20orc)2?”

“Gorner, son of Funper,” says the dwarf without hesitation, looking scared out of his mind.

“Master Gorner, my dear fellow,” Fíli says, voice smooth as Beorn's honey, “before you, stands Prince Kíli, son of Dís, of Erebor. I believe you may recognise the name. After all, it _is_ in various songs and stories which recount the reclamation of our home.”

The blood drains from the Gorner’s face, and Fíli grins.

“Ah, so you do know his name! Do you then still believe that he should be barred from Erebor?”

Gorner frantically shakes his head, face reddening as he back-pedals. “No, no, of course not,” he says, “Prince Kíli helped to give _back_ Erebor! If anything, we should be heaping blessings upon his name!” His eyes flicker between Fíli and Kíli, unsure which to focus on.

“Precisely, my friend. Did you know, in the old days, before the dragon came, they used to cut off the hands of those who insulted the royal family?”

Gorner’s eyes widen, and his mouth drops open. “No, no, please, no, I did not know!”

“Do not worry, Master Gorner, I have no interest in maiming you. Prince Kíli, on the other hand, has been most grievously offended! He may not be as willing to put this matter behind him.”

Fíli shakes his head sadly for effect, before looking back at Kíli. Disappointment always works better than anger - a lesson learnt from their mother. Gorner has tears in his eyes, looking generally quite pathetic. Kíli almost feels sorry for him, but in all honesty, he brought it upon himself.

All dwarves are protective of family, after all, and those dwarves managed to hit upon several of his carefully hidden insecurities, making Fíli much more aggressive than usual.

“What do you think, my Prince? Shall my friend here keep his hands?” Fíli is casual as he spins the knife around in his hand.

The room is quivering with anticipation.

Kíli directs his eyes towards Gorner, who is gazing at him tearfully, face pleading. “How old are you?”

“Seventy, my prince.”

Fíli pauses in his movements. “You’re practically a child!” he says, brow crinkled. Gorner flushes red, and his friends all look away, sheepish.

Kíli makes sure that his expression is stern as he says, “I believe that the only thing necessary is an apology, and then we may all forgive and forget this unfortunate incident.”

Gorner drops to his knees, hands clasped together, and he begs for forgiveness. “Thank you, thank you, forgive me [uzbadu men](my%20lord)3, I am so terribly sorry for my actions, [gazardul menu ked gamelu pethem](your%20wisdom%20is%20as%20ancient%20as%20stone)4…” The babble continues on, until Kíli interrupts.

“That’s enough, I accept your apology. Now, I suggest that you all go back home to your amads, and that you watch your mouths from now on. Other dwarves will not be so forgiving.”

“Yes, yes, of course, my prince, thank you,” says Gorner, his friends echoing the sentiments, and they all quickly throw coins onto their table, getting ready to file out.

Another of the friends stops for a moment, and looks back at the brothers, focussing on Fíli. “Er, excuse me, sir, but, um, may we know your name?” The other dwarves freeze, waiting eagerly to hear the answer.

The blond pauses before answering, and Kíli resists the impulse to roll his eyes at his brother’s dramatics.

“Fíli, son of Dís, Crown Prince of Erebor,” says Fíli, and the colour drains from the boys’ faces, before they all quickly scurry away, exchanging rapid whispers.

“ – we insulted the _Crown Prince’s brother_ – ”

“ – Gorner you bloody numbskull – ”

“ – Amad will have my hide for this – ”

Noise slowly builds back up in the bar, though all of the patrons continue to give the princes not-so-subtle glances.

“Well,” says Kíli, mildly on edge from the whole encounter. “I think it’s time to go, don’t you?”

Fíli looks at him, affronted. “I haven’t even finished my drink yet.”

Kíli gives him a look. Fíli sighs, downs the rest of his ale, and shoves a handful of money into the bartender’s hands. He seems quite grateful to see the back of them.

As they wander back home, nodding to the guards they meet on the way, Kíli says, “You didn’t have to do that. I could’ve taken care of it.”

Fíli laughs, as if his brother has just said a particularly funny joke. “Of course I did, nadadith. An insult to you is an insult to me.” He wraps an arm around his (taller) brother’s shoulders, and ruffles his hair affectionately.

“It’s a shame,” says Kíli, leaning into his brother’s warmth.

“What is?”

“That we can never go to that pub again.”

**Author's Note:**

> so yeah i had a bit of a craving for more protective!fíli after reading goldenlionprince's awesome fic, and i hope that she doesn't mind me shamelessly using that plot for inspiration (if you do mind please say so!!)
> 
> probably a bit out of character but idc i needed to get it out
> 
> hope you enjoyed!
> 
> translations:
> 
> 1 - fool  
> 2 - son of an orc  
> 3 - my lord  
> 4 - your wisdom is as ancient as stone


End file.
